“I think a day out will be good for both of us.” Feather glances at me in the passenger seat of the car her father gave her a few weeks ago. “I love the mall. It has everything we could possibly need in one place. And you’ve always wanted to get your hair and nails done. No better time than the present, right?”

I nod in vague agreement. I think the real reason she wants to go is because, while I was away for the weekend, she tried to cut her own bangs and give herself layers. Now her shoulder-length black hair is only shoulder length in some places, and her bangs are on a wicked slant.

Hair trauma aside, Dr. Reynolds is always telling us to live in the present—the gift of life. Not the past or the future. So today seems like a good day for me to finally have my first salon experience.

Early last night my father dropped me off at Merryfield after my first weekend visit at their home. Other than seeing my grandmother, the weekend was disappointing. Stupidly, I had daydreamed about my parents telling me all about the past ten years of their lives and sharing cute, happy childhood stories about me in an effort to bring my memories back and help us bond. Instead, they were polite and friendly, but distant. When my father announced, after dinner, it was time to drive me back to my apartment in the confines of Merryfield, I felt relieved. And I couldn’t help noticing they seemed equally relieved.

At least I had the photo album from Grandma, which Feather and I stayed up late looking at together. Feather said hardly anyone has real printed photos anymore and that my Grandmother must be amazing to have printed them all out like she did and label them.

On the way to the mall, Feather takes me to my first drive-through to get us each a Starbucks latte (also a first for me), explaining that she recently read in a popular magazine that every morning should start with a good coffee or else we’re doomed to have a craptastic day. I don’t think the person who wrote that article has any idea what a truly craptastic day would even entail, and I’m sure if Feather or I wrote in and shared our past craptasticness with her, she’d rethink her belief that a coffee with the perfect amount of froth could make a person’s day better.

That being said, as I sip the vanilla latte Feather ordered for me, the warm, sweet, creaminess is actually very pleasing.

“Don’t forget your father gave you a gold card and said you can spend as much as you want,” Feather reminds me on our way into the shopping center, after spending half an hour looking for the closest parking spot possible. “I think he’s got the major guilts just like my dad does and thinks buying us stuff will make it all better. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with us taking them up on that and buying a few things, right?”

“Right,” I say, because I know that’s what she wants to hear. Feather was sexually abused by her stepfather when she was younger, and her biological father didn’t come into the picture until Feather developed a drug addiction, three years ago, at age seventeen and went into a severe depression. Her stepfather went to jail, and her mother moved away. Feather was already in the therapy program at Merryfield when I arrived, and we both transitioned to residential status at the same time.

During our stay at Merryfield, Feather and I occasionally went shopping with a few of the other girls. This was part of our treatment program—getting out into the world. Those outings were nothing like my current experience with Feather, who takes it upon herself to bring me to all her favorite stores and pick out outfits for me. Apparently, Feather used to shop a lot before she became a patient at Merryfield.

I let her drag me into each store and choose clothes for me because it seems to make her happy. And she’s good at it. Everything she picks out fits me perfectly. When our hands are filled with shopping bags, she brings me to a salon at the far end of the mall for us to get manicures. Then she talks me into getting my hair dyed a lighter color blond then cut and styled while she gets her hair fixed. Even though I feel completely overwhelmed and anxious to get back home, I go along with all of it, hoping to feel excited about girl things because it feels like it’s something I should like, and I want to fit in.

“You look gorgeous, Holly,” Feather says when the stylist finishes with me. I smile at her reflection in the mirror of the stylist’s station and lift my hand to touch my hair, which feels incredibly soft and silky. I never knew hair could feel so soft. As I stare at myself in the mirror, I realize I look like a young version of my mother. I actually look pretty; the hair highlights bring out the color of my eyes in a way I didn’t know was even possible. I look so…normal. Just like the pretty girls on TV. I know that, out here in the real world, the outside of people seems to matter more than the inside. I quickly learned that the illusion of appearance will always outweigh the truth of what’s really inside.

“Thank you,” I reply automatically. “It feels so different. I love it.”

“It was like straw before. You seriously look amazing.” Feather unzips her purse, rummages around, and triumphantly pulls out a small silver tube. “Let’s just give you a little bit of color to polish you off.”

I freeze as she comes at me with the lipstick, the waxy tip bright blood red. Be a pretty, bad little girl for me… “No…” I whimper. I pull back and swat her hand, sending the lipstick flying. It lands on the floor and rolls underneath the sinks. “No!” I scream, bursting into tears. “I don’t want to do that anymore!”

Feather and the stylist look at each other and then at me, forced awkward smiles on their faces.

“Holly, what’s wrong?” My roommate asks, glancing around the salon at the other women staring at us.

“No more lipstick,” I whisper, my body shaking. “I don’t want to be a bad girl anymore.”

“Jesus Christ,” Feather mutters, taking a deep breath and tossing her newly styled hair over her shoulder. “Another trigger? I’m so sorry. What the fuck kind of shit did he do to you?”

The stylist hovers behind us, her hand at her throat. “Is everything okay? Can I get you some water?”

“She’s fine, Marcel.” Feather flashes her a friendly smile. “She just had a flashback. Just give her a sec, and we’ll be out of your way.”

Marcel gapes, her eyes wide. “Oh! I thought you looked familiar…” Her tone is hushed but still loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. I feel my cheeks flush with warmth. “You’re the one that was taken years ago, right? My goodness, I’m just remembering all the media coverage from the day you were found… I hadn’t realized…that bastard deserved to die.”

Trigger. Taken. Flashbacks.

I fill my lungs with air and count to ten, avoiding my own reflection in the mirror. When I think about the bad man, I feel conflicted and sick to my stomach. As much as he hurt me, he was the only person to show me any kind of attention or care for ten long years. He was all I had, other than Poppy and the TV. Of course, I know now that his actions weren’t caring at all and I was merely a toy that he kept alive to play with. But at the time, he was all I knew. I was only a child and needed someone. I’d learned to wish for his presence, to stave off the darkness and the never-ending silence while stuck in that dark basement. While my young mind knew he had taken everything away from me, I also knew that he was the only one who could give me anything. It spawned a very confusing love-hate conflict in me that only grew over the years.

When I think of the other him, my prince, I feel a sense of calm and safety inside, like I felt that day when he pulled me out of the hole and held me. He was the first person to make me feel something new, feelings so completely different than anything I’d felt in those past ten years. Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can almost feel his strong arms around me, protecting me, saving me. I can still remember the way the blue of his eyes took my breath away, and how his unique ragged voice soothed me. He still infiltrates my dreams and haunts me in my waking hours. I haven’t forgotten him, not for a moment, and I’m still waiting for him.

I’ll never stop waiting and hoping for him.

I often wonder if he even remembers me and if he ever thinks about me.

He does. I know he does. We just have to wait for the right time.

Feather pats my shoulder, which should be comforting but is not. Not when I’m wishing for him right now. “Yes,” she says to Marcel, a bit sharply because neither of us wants to be remembered as the victims we once were. “But she’s fine now. I just scared her by accident.” She squeezes my shoulder, trying to comfort me and sending me a hint to please not embarrass us again. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You’re totally cool now—right, Holly?”

I nod and force my lips into a smile. It’s a mask I have a feeling I’ll be wearing for most of my life. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry. Red just isn’t my color.” I shake my new bouncy hair like she did a few moments ago and boost myself out of the chair. “I’m a total spaz. I’m ready to go.”

Feather and Marcel share a relieved smile that radiates to the other women in the salon, who all go back to talking and texting and burning color onto their hair and flesh. The crisis is over. Nobody had to confront the bad thing in the room.

My heart is still racing as Feather and I walk past the lipstick on the floor and head to the front lobby, where she grabs a few bright pink bottles off a glass shelf. “Let’s get some really nice shampoo and conditioner. We can share it at home. We deserve to have the best after the evil shit we went through,” she says casually. Like nice shampoo and conditioner will somehow remove the “evil shit” we’ve had done to us. Buying things seems to comfort her, but it leaves me a little befuddled. I don’t think any of these people will ever understand me, maybe not even Feather. Dr. Reynolds has told me to accept that and to not hold it against people. It’s just how the world is—people don’t want to get personally involved. They cover things up, bury them, and mask them.

I’m not sure I can live that way. Or if I even want to.

I wince at Feather’s words and smile awkwardly at the questioning glance the girl behind the counter flashes at me. She averts her gaze back to her register.

“That would be great,” I reply, using my go-to phrase. It makes everyone happy, puts them at ease even if my delivery is less than great. Finally, we leave the salon, and I let Feather take the lead so I can take a break from faking smiles. My face is starting to hurt from forcing myself to look happy when all I want to do is get home and hide in my room for the rest of the night. I can only venture out for so long before I start to feel stressed, and my no more of this meter is teetering on level ten right now.

On our way back to the mall exit, Feather pulls me into a boutique that sells jewelry, clothes, and home decor made by local craftspeople. I’m in awe of all the beautiful things to choose from, and she helps me pick out a few scarves and a bracelet and necklace made of hand-blown glass beads. I’m so taken by all the pretty things that it almost erases the salon fiasco from my memory.

Her cell phone rings and she raises her finger to me as she answers it, signaling that she’ll be back in a few minutes. Nodding, I continue to wander around the store until a collection of small, black-framed photographs on the wall catches my eye. There are four, all taken of a lone fir tree in the snow-covered woods, decorated with Christmas ornaments. In one photo, a small red fox is sitting a few feet away, staring into the camera as snow falls around him. I was born on Christmas day and, when I was little, I was fascinated with all things Christmas. Those are memories I never forgot. The one thing I looked forward to while in captivity was watching all the holiday movies and cartoons on my television. Of course, I never knew when they would be on, so it always came as a surprise when Christmas commercials and movies finally started playing. I was never given any gifts by the bad man, but I was grateful for the fantasy world the TV let me live in.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” A salesgirl has come up next to me as I gaze at the photographs, and I silently pray she doesn’t recognize me.

I reach out and touch a frame, as if in some way it will connect me to the photo more intimately, bringing me into its scene and letting me stay there. “They are,” I say, my voice low with awe. “I love them.” And I mean it. I’m in love with these photos, and I have no idea why.

“It’s a cool legend.” She nods at the photos.

“Legend? What do you mean?”

She tilts her head at me and smiles, no recognition in her eyes. “You must not be from around here. It’s a cute children’s legend in this town—the Forest Santa.”

“Forest Santa?” I’m instantly intrigued.

She nods, smiling at me. “Yeah, for the past…maybe thirty years or so…someone decorates random trees way up in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, around Christmas time. Hikers usually find the trees, and photographers are always hunting for them, which is how we got lucky enough to have these photographs. Nobody knows who actually decorates them so, at some point, he or she was given the nickname Forest Santa. There’s a myth that woodland animals can speak on Christmas Eve, so part of the legend is that Forest Santa decorates the trees with them and they celebrate Christmas together. The little kids love the story.”

“I would like to buy them, please,” I say, not taking my eyes off the photographs. I’m captivated by the magical feeling of the photos and the legend behind them, and now I can’t bear the thought of not being able to look at them whenever I want.

The salesgirl stares at me; then she eyes the four pictures. “They’re quite expensive, two hundred dollars each—”

“That’s fine,” Feather interrupts, suddenly appearing next to me with a big smile. “She’ll take all four. Can you wrap them up for her?”

“Of course!” the salesgirl says, responding instantly to Feather’s confident demeanor, which I know is all an act that she plays very well. “I’ll meet you at the register with them.” The salesgirl carefully takes them down from the wall.

Nerves rattle my stomach. Money is not a concept I’m at all comfortable with, and I just don’t feel like I have a right to spend someone else’s money. Especially my father’s. He barely speaks to me.

“Feather…that’s a lot of money, and I don’t need them. I didn’t know—”

My friend puts her hand up to shush me. “Holly, stop. You’re allowed to have things. I know you probably don’t know this, but your dad makes a lot of money. He took me aside last night, when you were putting your suitcase in your room, and told me to make sure you bought anything you wanted after I told him we were going shopping.”

I bite my lip. “Are you sure? I’m not used to buying things.”

“I know—that’s what I’m here for. I’m a pro.” She grins and loops her arm through mine. “Come on, I’ll let you slide the card. It’s totally addicting.”

* * *

It’s nearly eight o’clock by the time Feather and I are on our way home to Merryfield. It’s dark outside but even darker inside her car due to the tinted windows. I squint, my gaze wandering around the interior of the car. The darkness reminds me of being in that hole, the dirt in my nostrils, the sounds of the woods at night frightening me. I could hear things walking around at night, and I never knew if it was my captor or a wild animal. I always tried to hush Poppy by gently putting my hand over his mouth, afraid he would make the bad man mad or bring a wild animal to eat us.

“Did you scream for help while you were in the hole in the woods?” The female officer asked.

“No…never,” I answer.

“Why not?”

“I guess I forgot someone would ever help me.”

I thought we were only going shopping, but Feather surprises me by also taking me to her favorite restaurant for dinner. I look at her uneasily as her manicured fingertips tap out a text message on her phone with one hand as she steers the car with the other. I don’t have a cell phone, and the insane appeal of them is lost on me. What can be so interesting on a little phone?

“Sorry…Steve is telling me about his day,” she says, referring to her sort-of boyfriend, a guy she’s known since she was very young, who is mostly a friend but is slowly turning into more. She puts her phone in the console between our seats, and I can breathe a little easier knowing she actually has her eyes on the road and the traffic around us. “Are you feeling okay now? I’m sorry about the lipstick thing…”

“It’s okay. You had no way of knowing. I just feel bad I embarrassed you.”

“The guy…he made you wear lipstick?” She’s the only person who ever asks for any details whatsoever about what happened to me, and I usually don’t mind telling her.

I chew my lip, torn between wanting to tell her and not wanting to remember any of it. “Yeah,” I finally admit, feeling ashamed, even though the logical side of me knows it’s not my fault. “Bright red lipstick. He’d put it on me before he…touched me.”

She grimaces. “God, that’s fucking sick. That’s like the shit you see in movies. I’m so glad my mom’s husband didn’t do weird shit like that with me. He just liked to get drunk and grope the hell out of me.”

Just thinking red and lipstick starts to make me panic, and I break out in a cold sweat. I clamp down on that sensation, force the images and feelings of fear away. I don’t want to freak out again, or Feather may not want to take me out in public again. I use the breathing and visualization exercises Dr. Reynolds taught me to do when I feel overwhelmed with emotions.

Counting to ten, I squeeze my eyes shut. I bite on my lower lip and try to clear my mind. I force my thoughts away from those memories and into less dangerous territory. I think about Poppy, in his new home, happy and loved. I think about my prince, his words promising me I’ll be okay. I think about my books and the stories that always give me comfort. I think about my grandmother’s hugs. I think about my new Christmas photographs. Soon I feel better. Less out of control.

According to Dr. Reynolds, I suffer from what’s called posttraumatic stress disorder, and I’ll likely have to deal with it for the rest of my life. Her focus was on teaching me how to understand the triggers I’ll face and how to calmly deal with them, especially in public. Which I guess I kinda failed at today. Talking about how to deal with triggers in the safety of her office is a lot different from experiencing it in real life, and now I’m completely exhausted from this day.

I open my eyes and glance over at Feather discreetly. She doesn’t seem to notice my anxiety, her attention on the road and the radio. That small bit of information about my past seems to have satisfied her, so I don’t offer any further details. We’re almost home, and I’m looking forward to being alone and forgetting about the bad parts of the day.

Feather seems to have recovered from her abuse better than I have, and I’m a bit jealous. When we first met last year, she was quiet, depressed, and withdrawn. Now she’s much happier, like a lot of weight has been lifted from her. I often wonder how she feels about me as a friend. Does she feel sorry for me? Disgusted by me? Her head is bobbing slightly to the music coming from the car stereo, oblivious to me watching her. I wish I could be as carefree as she appears to be lately.

We stop at a traffic light, and Feather picks up her phone again and types wildly on the tiny keyboard, illuminating the interior of the car. I hope she’s not telling Steve about me and the red lipstick incident.

The thundering roar of a motorcycle pulling up to a stop next to us startles me, and I peer out the window at the rider. It’s early October but, even with a chill in the air, all he’s wearing is a black shirt with the sleeves pushed up, revealing muscular, tattooed arms. A black knit hat covers his head in lieu of a helmet. Long dirty blond hair sprouts from the hem and just touches his collar. He must feel my gaze because he turns sideways toward me.

I gasp—

The lower half of his face is covered by a mask that looks like a portion of a bloody skull. His eyes are hidden behind dark glasses. He grabs the burning cigarette dangling from a hole cut in the mask and blows a puff of gray smoke in my direction before carelessly flicking the cigarette onto the street between us.

But that’s not what’s got me nearly crawling out of my seat and jumping out into the road. I sit forward slightly and lean closer to the dark-tinted window, not sure he can even see me.

“Did you see that creeper throw his cigarette at my car?” Feather shoves her phone back into the console. “I should run that asshole off the road.”

My heart gallops in my chest, and I lean even closer to the window, my breath puffing against the cold glass, my eyes riveted to his tattooed hand, wrapped around the handlebar grip.

The last time I saw that tattooed hand, it was squeezing the throat of the man who had kept me for ten years.

My eyes widen, poring over him. The way his powerful legs wrap around the rumbling motorcycle, the broadness of his shoulders, his arm muscles flexing, the colorful ink covering the exposed parts of his forearms, the stray wisps of hair blowing in the breeze. An indescribable ache sears through me, a longing like nothing I have ever felt before.

Look at me, look at me!

I want to scream it. I want him to see me. I need him to recognize me.

I’m right here!

But his gaze doesn’t linger. His head turns away, and he guns his engine.

No! He’s going to leave me again. I’m going to lose him again. There he is, just six feet away from me—the man who saved me. My beautiful, strong prince. My breath catches as he kicks the bike into gear with a scuffed black boot then speeds off down the dark road, disappearing within moments.

I wish I could have stopped him.

I wish I could thank him and tell him I’m sorry for what he went through for me.

But most of all, I want to tell him how I waited for him.

Hoped for him and dreamt of him for so long.

How I’m still waiting.

Is it possible to wish someone right out of your heart into existence?

Yes. Yes, it is.

Now we just have to find each other again.